The mice, some alive, some dead, some in bloody pieces
would appear in our bedroom at night: you could hear her
bringing them in because she would be growling softly.
Then the torture would begin — friend of mine once said:
if they weren’t so beautiful you wouldn’t have them in the house
— anyway, Katisha would torture those mice; we could hear the screams.
Next day she would lie in the sun benignly performing her toilette
then curve herself into a gold clad Egyptian sculpture and sleep
in the same room as the old gray cat, Circe, whose hunting days were past.
As the summer passed, Katisha began leaving mice within swatting distance
of Circe, who would instantly perk up, have a nice little hunt and torture,
a pleasant crunchy supper, and fall into a long sound sleep.
Looking back, the barometer of Circe’s health was probably that
the mice Katisha brought for Circe’s edification where progressively more disabled
so that the old cat could enjoy an activity within her capability.
One afternoon in late August, we found Circe on a neighbor’s lawn.
We planted a black walnut at the head of her grave.
Now Katisha eats all her kill herself, but she questions me endlessly.
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